I think I might be homesick again.
This is probably rather understandable as I’m sitting on my bed, listening to country music, and have recently found out that I can’t talk to one of my best friends until Thursday. It’s absolutely the weirdest thing in the world, having talked to him once in the last three weeks when we talk practically every day at home.
I also had my first major migraine since home today, and the last one happened the same day he and his girl came over during the break. There’s an odd sort of symmetry here, and the writer in me can’t help but notice it.
It’s been far too long since I wrote something meaningful – poetry or short fiction, or even a decent sort of essay. Being in workshop classes really kick-starts all that, and it helps to have all the good reading material that Elon’s wonderful CRW professors assign. I miss my giant anthology of short fiction; I wanted so badly to read Never Marry a Mexican again the other day, and I couldn’t, and it was so very frustrating! That’s probably where half this pent-up weirdness is coming from, anyway, the distinct lack of writing in my life lately. I want to stay in a cafe until 10 or 11 and sit down and write, but cafes here close at 6:30! This is driving me absolutely bonkers.
I suppose lots of things are driving me absolutely bonkers.
I think writers have to be one of the most finicky bunches of people in existence. The sub-category calling themselves poets might be the strangest of all.
So I think I’m going to have to figure out how to capture, succinctly and poetically, how sitting in Chris’ trailer smoking hookah with him and Jake and DJ, is for me.